Shadows
by twenteseven
Summary: Two chapter thing, just a short idea I had. Brendan is released from prison four years down the line. He thinks Steven has moved on and it nearly kills him, until Ste finds him at his lowest and brings him back to life
1. Chapter 1

**"****Keep your face always toward the sunshine – and the shadows will fall behind you"**

He's stood in the shadows.

Watching.

He's been in the shadows for weeks now, waiting for the glimpse of sunlight when he appears, in the distance. Too far away. He senses the shadows all around him, can feel them casting their darkness over him, clawing at his skin, suffocating. He wants so desperately to be able to shake them off, to breathe again. But he knows he cannot do it without him, and he isn't _his _anymore.

His boy – his shining light – is brightening someone else's path now.

The thought almost causes him to double over, gut-wrenching pain shooting through his stomach, up into his chest like a thousand bullets through his heart. He doubts he will ever get over it, will ever be able to walk with his head high or ever find another who he fits inside so perfectly. He _knows _he never will.

The devil inside him pushes the questions to the forefront of his mind, the questions that force out a cry from his lips, bloody curdling, desperation personified in the sounds that escape him, in the tears that threaten to roll from his eyes.

That smile. That secret smile he only ever saw in the afterglow, when he was fucked out and spent and high on the thick, hazy air which encompassed them, the mutual understanding of what they had both put each other through; what they always put each other through. Was that smile reserved only for him? Or did it melt the hearts of all the others too?

Did he curl his fingers around their neck when he was close to shattering into a million pieces? Did he intertwine his fingers with theirs when he wanted them to slow down, to savour the moment? Did he run his fingers up and down the hairs on their forearms when they were stressed, his touch so sensitive and slight it's almost ghostlike, screams of intimacy and affection and _love _and how the fuck can he cope without that feeling ever again?

His knees have given in beneath him, he is sitting now, back up against the wall, legs outstretched across the alleyway and head leaning back up against the brickwork. It's dark – not just inside his head and his heart, but all around him, the night closing in around him. He can't find the strength to lift himself, to carry his own weight across the village and into his flat. The flat that Cheryl kept despite her stench of new money now, that she visits every few months to keep it fresh, that she can't sell because she can't let go of the people she lost in that place. Lynsey. Brendan. The hero from her childhood who turned out to be be a figment of her imagination.

He chokes, his mind and body numb to it but something inside of him he recognises the cold trickle down his cheek and it reminds him that he is alive. Despite it all, despite his reluctance to be here, despite the pain being the only thing he has felt inside of him for years – he is still here.

Watching.

He hears the sound of heels against concrete and whatever he has left of his survival instinct gives him the strength to pull himself up, pull himself back into this world he half lives in and to hide away. To go back into the shadows.

He cannot be seen. He cannot risk the footsteps belonging to someone who knew him, who knows Steven.

He moves with more speed than he thinks he can muster, out of the alleyway and up the steps to the flat, his movements stealth and hidden. He lets himself in quietly, no strength for worldly comforts now as he just manages to shut the door behind him before he collapses back against it, succumbing once again to the shadows that dance behind his eyelids, memories flickering past as blurry images, he can almost hear the click of the slide-show as it rotates around his head, snapshots of memories of smiles on Steven's face, of anger and resentment in his eyes, of lust and electricity in his smile.

The nostalgia helps to close off his mind, to shut away the pain for now, and he sleeps. On the floor, against the door of the flat that had once been so full of energy and love, and was now dark, cold and dust ridden, as if it was some sort of metaphor for his life.

-s-

It's the bang against the door behind him that wakes him, shoots his eyes open and places him on instant high alert.

He hears voices the other side of the door.

_Careful._

_Well it's not like there's anyone living there._

_Doesn't mean you can just kick the door down._

_Well who's gonna know if I do?_

_Oh stop being a dick and get your arse inside, you owe me a cuppa._

The voices fade off. Fucking students.

He watches the light sear through the slight gaps in the vertical blinds, rays grasping out, trying to soothe the darkness of the room. He watches the tiny specks of dust floating around, dancing in the glory of the daylight, escaping the shadows that linger all around.

He feels hungry. He hasn't eaten in days, hasn't stepped further than three metres into the flat, hasn't ventured into the kitchen, or up the stairs, or into his old bedroom. He's just slept here every night, on the sofa or on the floor. It's a shelter for him – it's nothing else. He doesn't deserve anything else. Warmth, comfort, a kitchen full of food. He can't bring himself to provide any of it, not when all he can see when he looks in a mirror is the broken ghost of a superhero who lost his wings. Superman post kryptonite.

He belongs in another world now. He's halfway to hell and he knows that's where he deserves to be.

When they had let him out, when by some gross miscarriage of justice and the biggest fuck up in Hollyoaks police history his lawyer found proof of police tampering with evidence for the initial trial and the judge had ruled it a mistrial and ordered his release – he hadn't understood why. He wondered if God had finally took a liking to him, or took pity on his broken darkened soul and set him free, in every sense of the world.

Whatever it was, he had known exactly where he was heading, and he barely took the time to breathe, barely let his own feet touch the ground as he ran back, literally ran to be with his boy again.

He didn't know what made him hold back, made him watch from a distance for that fatal moment before he let himself fall back into his life. It had felt like an out of body experience, like he could stand above himself and watch as his body crumbled below him, breath fighting to leave his lungs, his eyes taking in the sight of Steven – _his Steven –_ with some other man. Tall, slim, suited, Hollywood-good-looking, blonde dishevelled hair.

Fuck.

He kissed him on the lips. It was familiar.

Fuck.

Of course he had moved on. Why wouldn't he? Why would someone like Steven stand around and waste their beauty, waste their feisty sass and vigour on brooding over some piece-of-shit, broken, damaged goods like Brendan Brady?

_Nothing's ever gonna change, and I'm never gonna feel any differently about you._

The memory of those words punched him, winded him clean in the gut, the doubt in their' sincerity swimming around his mind now, replacing the conviction which had held onto those exact words for the past 4 years.

Of course he had moved on.

It was Brendan that hadn't. It was Brendan that was stuck in this place, foolishly holding on to those memories, those words that seemed so empty now, that stung him where they had once enveloped him with warmth.

He couldn't keep away though. He wasn't sure what it was – whether it was stupidity, desperation, blind optimism or the tiny, ever-decreasing part of him that dared to believe in their love despite it all, that dared to grasp onto hope with its fingertips because this couldn't be it, this couldn't be over. Whatever it was, something had made him stay – had made him watch from the shadows every day, praying Steven's light could still colour in his soul even from a distance.

He's not eating properly. His appetite has withstood all manner of tests, and has never failed him before. Now the ache he feels for Steven, the yearning desire filling his senses, the devastation of his heart break as it builds up walls now, brick by brick so that nobody can make their way in ever again – that is what has beaten him. Life without Steven, without any hope of Steven, has beaten him.

He's standing in his familiar spot now, opposite the deli, lurking in the bushes, out of sight. It's daylight, it's May time and the sun in shining – there are a few white cotton-wool clouds dotted across the sky, breaking up the piercing blue of the atmosphere above him. It couldn't be further removed from how he feels inside his heart; the perfect juxtaposition of dark against light; despair against hope; his soul against Stevens.

He watches through the deli window. Watches Steven serving customers, smiling at them but there's something missing. The ease with which he used to chatter is gone. Between customers he is lost, emptiness behind his eyes, leaning down on the deli counter, eyes fixed permanently to the same spot, as his face contorts which the flashes of memories behind his eyes.

Every so often Steven follows a customer to the door, holds it open for them and he's sure he imagines it, but it happens three, no, four times – each time Steven gets close he glances upwards. Glances at the balcony of the place that holds all manner of secrets. Glances at the place where he had fallen. Where the game had been lost – the battle conceded – defeat inevitable.

He's sure he imagines the flash of pain that washes over Steven's face as he looks up, convinces himself he cannot possibly tell from this distance, that Steven has worked opposite that place for four years now and he can't possibly still feel the pain that is now so fresh in Brendan's eyes. He tells himself its his mind playing tricks on him, the devil inside his head reading what it wants into what he sees, torturing him with promises of reuniting with that one forbidden fruit that he will never get to taste again.

He feels his resolve weakening. Feels his whole body weakening. Feels his knees beneath him starting to tire and his head starts to spin. It doesn't feel right, his body is failing beneath him, he knows he has pushed it to its limits and now it is powerless, incapable of trying any more, of putting up a fight for any longer. He knows he needs to move, needs to get back to the flat before he passes out in the middle of the village and lets them all see what's become of him.

It's risky, moving through the village in pure daylight, walking right outside the deli to get from where he is now to the steps leading up to the flat. But he has to try, try to escape before his weakness exposes him out here.

The hood goes up, expression fixed down and he moves, feels as if his legs aren't even carrying him, as if his body is on autopilot and his muscles claw against his bones, whittled down now to a shadow of their former self, sinewy and stretched, result of weeks of malnutrition and a defeated soul.

His shoulder connects with something hard and unforgiving, strength reminiscent of his own in years gone by, looks up to see Prince Hollywood with a little fire in his eyes, thoughts fleeting through his mind whether that's what Steven sees in him – passion, greed and strength and protection – what he had once seen in Brendan.

He vaguely hears an _Oi-watch-it _and feels a feeble _fuck-you _escape his own lips in return, but sound seems to have escaped him and all he can hear properly is the muffled beating of his own heart, the cold lifeless heart that anchors him down now, and it takes all the strength he has to carry on, one step in front of the other, until he reaches the steps up to the flat. He doesn't care now, he is weak, spent, falls to the floor and crawls, hauls his fatigued body upwards on his knees, his hands tugging up one step at a time and he knows there's people there, people watching him and he hauls himself back onto his feet, careering sideways as he grabs onto the wall, this solid friend of his who shoulders him now, lets him lean in as his feet carry him up, slowly and painfully and full of effort.

He reaches the top step and drops, out of sight now of the villagers, of Steven, and he doesn't care now. He can die right here against the railings and he wouldn't care. Why delay the inevitable.

He breathes, heavy and laboured, and feels the oxygen flood his brain, bringing his senses back, sight, hearing, touch. He sits up, resting back against the metal bars, and it's then he hears him.

The sweet, rough, delicious, Mancunian accent. It's completely involuntary when his heart starts to race, and it feels like the first time he had been reminded of his potential for immortality since the moment he set eyes on his boy two weeks ago. His chest swells, his whole world centring on the words which fall heavily from his mouth. His perfect, sweet, fuckable mouth that Brendan knows he has missed so much,

_What's up wi' your face?_

_Just bumped into this right weirdo_

It's Prince Hollywood answering him, sneers with disdain and the gravelly tone of his voice, strong Essex accent, no doubt makes Steven go weak at the knees for him, like his own accent used to do to the boy.

_Who?_

_No idea, he just shoulder barged me then flung himself up them stairs, he looked fucked, half drugged or somethin'._

_Uh_

_Proper funny moustache on him as well._

_What?_

And suddenly there was a purpose back in the boys voice – an urgency that had been lacking in all the times he'd watched him.

_Brendan?! _

It was quiet at first, unsure, instinctive.

_BRENDAN!_

Now it's piercing, terrifying.

_BRENDAN?! _

Desperate, sobbing out of him.

_Who the fuck's Brendan?_

_WHERE DID HE GO?_

Begging, pleading, his body alive for the first time in years with the thought of being close to him.

_Up the stairs, why?_

Oh God. Steven was moving, could hear his footsteps racing up to him. He stood quickly, desperate to escape him, to hide away from him in this state he had gotten himself into. _Because _of him. Because he didn't keep his word. Because he had obviously stopped loving him, because he had moved on and who could blame him. Because he was too damn perfect for Brendan to ever be able to give up.

He was standing, leaning, pushing himself towards the door but it was too late. Steven's footsteps were close, getting closer, and his face was rounding the corner now, full of intrigue and concern and then worry and then disbelief and then panic.

The world before him all of a sudden appeared brighter, the shadows fading, falling behind him now as he faced his own private sunshine, the boy that brought light into his soul and for the first time in years he noticed the blue sky, the birds tweeting, the searing heat of the Spring heatwave. His body swelled with emotion, the constriction in his chest – the one that he become so used to he had almost forgotten it was there – was lifting away, his body and soul filling with love and light and happiness and _hope. _This is what this boy did to him; made him become somebody all his bodily instincts told him he was not. Cast light on his dark soul, brought him back from the abyss, shut out the demons inside his own head and made him believe, even after _everything _he had been through, everything they had been through _together_, that the world could one day be good again.

He didn't know if it was the lack of sleep, the lack of food, the torture he had inflicted upon himself like some form of self-flagellation for the past 4 years; or if it was just the overwhelming surge of emotions he felt literally bursting out of him – whatever it was, it was taking hold of him completely, overwhelming him, and he felt himself drifting out of consciousness.

As he fell up against the front door of the flat, he saw Steven running towards him, expression seeping panic and arms outstretched, reaching for him, against his shoulders as he caught him, cushioning the fall, on his knees now as Brendan sunk into his body, cheek against his chest, lying up against him, and as his eyes closed, it wasn't darkness he saw behind them. It was white, it was life flooding back through his veins; it was the feel of Steven's lips against his temple; it was the warmth of his arms as they surrounded him, held him, strong and dependable and enveloping him with need; it was the sound of Steven whispering _I love you _and _Stay with me _into his ear; it was the feel of his own body giving in, relenting, sobbing into the boy as he slipped out of consciousness.

_**Please review :) I will upload the next chapter in the next couple of days.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Totally blown away by the reaction to this! Thank you thank you thank you :)**_

_**Ok, I've re-written this chapter a few times, over and over (hence the delay to update, sorry!) and I'm not completely happy with it. I liked the first chapter and I just don't feel like this one matches up, but I'm just going to bite the bullet and upload. Hope it's ok.**_

_**To the reviewers who asked for it to be longer than 2 chapters – thank you for enjoying it enough to want to read more :) I originally did this as a one shot but thought I should split it into two, but I'm not gonna write any more for it. Like Kieron said, if Brendan does come back he best jump straight into Ste's bed and I really wanted it to be that way in this story, so there's only really a need for one more chapter ;) Plus I have Get Away to write and I don't know if my brain is good enough to sustain writing two stories side by side. **_

_**Hope you like the ending, let me know as always xxx**_

_**Warning for the sex, btw ;)**_

When he comes to it's hard not to think it, not to let his mind present the obvious, that the darkness has lifted and it feels good – too good; too good for a sinner like him to have made it here. Heaven. He was damned to hell and he knew that, knew it so vividly that he's sure this hell on earth he had been put through was a taster for what was to come for him, fire and heat and torture that had spilled over from his inevitable destination because he was the epitome of bad. He must be. He deserved the worst.

So why is he here now, sunlight blinding his eyes, fresh air filling his lungs from where it floods through the open window before him, warmth of Steven's body beside him and beneath him, his head resting in the boys lap as he sits and Brendan lays down. Maybe this is the worst form of torture, a taste of everything good, of what might have been, of what could have been, of what life was for him once upon a time, for those glorious three months. It'll be snatched away from him soon, he's sure of it; must all be some illusion, like an oasis in the desert, the one thing he longs for, needs more than anything. But it isn't going to last. He feels sure of it.

He breaths it in, inhales it, deciding to savour all that he can before reality snaps back around him as it surely will do soon. The scent of him, the citrus of his shower gel infused with the musk of his aftershave, so familiar, so real it's as if the boy is here with him, holding him. The faint smell of Irish stew simmering through from the kitchen. Too good to be true. Surely.

He doesn't want to move out of fear it will shift him back to his own dimension, trigger some switch that will pull him out of this reverie and drop him back in his world of self pity and darkness.

He feels a warm hand brush against the side of his head, the side that isn't resting in the boys lap, running up and down gently, shirt cuff tickling at the short hairs near the nape of his neck. It feels so real he almost lets himself believe it's true. It moves lower, trailing across his shoulders and down his arm, taking hold of his hand, intertwining his fingers. His instincts take over and he squeezes the hand in return, sure this weakness will be the thing to snap him back to reality.

Except nothing changes. The light doesn't fade. The warmth of his body is still here, the touch of his fingers still against his own, the gentleness of his thumb as it drags against his palm. The scent of him, so sweet and unmistakeable, still floating up inside his weary senses and filling him with hope. He dares to blink his eyes back open, rolling onto his back and looking up at Steven sitting here, watching him intently, look of disbelief in his own eyes.

"Brendan!" The boy whispers as if in awe, "Oh god, Brendan."

And it sounds like relief – pure unadulterated relief than seeps out of the boys perfect mouth as he squeezes him a little tighter.

Brendan swallows down, waiting for everything to return back to black. The longer it takes, the more he lets himself believe that this isn't all a trick of the mind. That he really is here, here in his boys arms; that the light surrounding him isn't Heaven, but it's _his _Heaven, it's Steven bringing light back into his world and the thought stills him, a haze of peace surrounding him, bringing him strength when his whole body is weak with fatigue and despair.

"Steven."

It rasps out of him, shocking even himself with the desperation of it, the pain that etches into his throat as the vibrations hum from his voice box. The razors slicing down the inside of his tonsils. He tries to sit himself up but it's useless. He's useless. His limbs have deserted him, despite the light around him now his body is still fading.

He wills himself to be stronger, to be strong enough in this moment to look Steven in the eye and tell him – tell him everything he's been thinking since he last saw him that day in the hospital. The loss, the soul crippling loss he had felt at the absence of Steven from his world. The darkness that had descended all around him, that had always been there for him but which felt stronger than ever, deeper than ever before, since he had been given a taste of the springtime before it had been snatched cruelly from his grasp.

The nights he had spent inside, yearning for him; waking in the night with his name on his lips; memories haunting him from their blink-and-you'll-miss-it moments of true unadulterated happiness together; dreams tempting him with snapshots of a future they could have had – a future his boy deserved and he longs to be the one to give him. A future full of light; full of happiness and hope.

He's waking again now – feels the line blur between sleep and life and he didn't even realise he had succumbed again to the fatigue, but here he is now and it's dusk outside, the sun setting and now he's sure it's happened. He feels no warmth against his face and no beating heart against his ear, no hand linked in with his own and he knows. He thinks he knows.

The darkness is back.

Steven's gone – it had all been his mind. The devil playing tricks on him, teasing him with that life. That one thing he needs more than anything.

He knows it was too good to be true.

He may as well let go, give in to the pain he feels coursing through his body, isn't sure if it's anything physical, can't see any scars forming other than those etched into his soul, but there's no point any more. No point in any of this any longer.

His head is spinning. He had let himself believe that the boy – _his _boy – had been here. It had felt so real, he had so wanted it to be real. He knew he shouldn't have fallen for it. There's nothing left for him now. Nothing if there's no Steven in his reality.

_You're a doctor, please just help him._

_I will. But who is he?_

The sound of voices behind him. The sound of _his _voice. Steven.

Steven and his new Prince. They're here, still plaguing his dreams.

Of course he's a doctor. Steven deserves a good man. A hero. But Brendan despises the man already.

It gives him little comfort right now to know that Steven's moved on and that he's happy, as he had told him to – not when all he wants is to feel him here again, feel his heat beneath him.

He blinks his eyes open and lets himself focus on it, rolling onto his back, stifling the groan that threatens to escape his lips and alert them to his waking state.

_He's Brendan._

There's a smile to the boys words. Something a lot like pride. Disbelief in there, too. But definitely pride.

_He needs an ambulance. He's weak, he needs proper care._

_No, we can't – he can't. No._

There's silence again. Heavy, laboured silence between the two of them. Uncertainty flying through the air between them and Brendan lies there and drinks it in, desperate to see cracks in their surface, searching for something he can exploit, somewhere he can worm his way into and chisel away at until there's nothing left of them, no longer a pair, just Steven. Just _his _Steven.

He needn't let it worry him.

_Just tell me who he is. Why do you care so much?_

The Prince is pushing him, searching for answers.

_It's Brendan._

It's all Steven has the strength to say. It's all he needs to say.

It was Brendan. And it was Steven. And that was all that there would ever be.

He's drifting off again, with the taste of opportunity on the tip of his tongue – Steven still cares, that much is obvious to him now, and Brendan vows to do all he can to win him back.

"Brendan," the voice is sweet as fucking syrup as it pours into him, seeping through him and enveloping his cold heart, warming through it and he's waking again now, waking from another sleep he hadn't felt himself fall into.

"Brendan, you need to eat something," and it sounds a lot like care, like concern, like Steven's voice is laced with worry; a lot like something not from a dream or from some alternate universe where the devil is tempting him with hallucinations of what could have been or what it was once upon a time for them.

"Please, Brendan," he continues to beg, "I hate seeing you this weak."

It occurrs to him then, like a shot of lightening through his weary soul. If this is some trick, some mirage of the perfect life for him, then why would he be so helpless in it? Why would his body be so weak? Why would he be this shadow of his former self; this pathetic, drained, self-pitying burden on the man he loved.

He wouldn't be this way.

He doesn't want to let himself believe this is real, fear gripping his insides at the idea of Steven _really _being here, actually sitting before him now, watching him intently, panic and dread and concern racing past his eyes. This isn't his dream. Steven is his dream, yes – Steven's the mirage. But this life – this picture now of complete dependence, of the look on Steven's face, of the desperation in his voice and the trembling passing through his body at the sight of Brendan before him.

This isn't his dream.

This is his reality.

This is happening. It's really happening.

Steven is here. Steven is real. It's all real.

A flash of sunlight creeps through the curtains, sun appearing behind a cloud and Brendan blinks back as it pours over his face, blinding him with realisation.

Steven sees it and he stands up, goes to shut the curtains to block it out, to protect him from it.

Brendan fights to get the words out, whispering, "No," at Steven, summoning all the strength he has to say it but after so many years in the darkness, after so long in the shadows, he can't block out this blinding ray of light.

Steven turns to him and smiles.

It pierces through him, the way the sun falls around him, claws its way past him and he stands there, basking in it and it's the most beautiful thing Brendan has ever seen.

"It speaks," Steven teases him.

If he can find the energy to smile, he hopes he's doing so now.

Even now, even as he looks at him with concern and worry and disbelief – even now, Steven's sass still shines through.

Steven returns to him, sitting before him on the coffee table and picking up the bowl of steaming stew from beside him. He feeds it to Brendan, one spoonful at a time. Brendan taking it from him without question, knows this is what he needs – can't remember the last time he had eaten, let alone tasted anything so divine.

It warms his whole body through as it slides down his throat, sensation seeping back through him and he can feel his body strengthening already. With every mouthful he eyes Steven over the spoon, watches the smile form on his face as he swallows it down, tries his best to be seductive but he senses the boys smile has little to do with his suggestive eyes and more to do with his willingness to take back his divine cuisine with such an appetite.

He hasn't felt like eating in days, weeks even. Not properly in years. All of a sudden he feels as if there's a reason to live again – a reason to look after himself – and it's sat right before him.

Steven is worth fighting for.

After a few more bowls full of stew his body is starting to respond to him. His appetite has returned with a vengeance. He feels lighter – it seems easier to move somewhat. The aching in his muscles is ebbing away; the tremble in his hands is slowly steadying; and he can feel some kind of fire starting to burn inside of him. Every time he looks at his boy, the fire sears higher, scorching further into the recesses of his body and soul.

All the while the boy is sat there opposite him, watching him intently, as if he's matching up his features with the image he had resigned to his memory, drinking in the parts he had almost forgotten.

Brendan feels self-conscious, knows he looks a shadow of the man he had been when Steven had loved him, wondered if his boy feels anything at all when he looked back at him now. If there's even a shred of the love he had once poured over him.

"How – When did you get out, Bren?" Steven asks gently. It't not interrogative, it's not spiteful or venomous or contemptful. It holds that gentle intrigue that Steven has always possessed, and Brendan smiles with it.

"I got released a couple of weeks ago," he replies, words slow and tortured as they pass through his lips, even the act of small talk taking up so much of his vacuous energy supply. "I haven't escaped," he adds with a hint of sarcasm, has seen the suspicion in the boys eyes and smiles at him knowingly.

He notices Steven's face fall upon hearing he had been out for so long. He won't let himself hope that it's because he cares. He had watched Steven for those few weeks since his release and it was clear he had moved on. He thought it was clear, anyway. And he won't hold that against him. He can't hold anything against Steven. There's nothing that would make Brendan stop loving him.

"Where have you been?" Steven asks, his voice betraying the hurt he's obviously feeling.

"I've been here, Steven," Brendan answers matter-of-factly, can't lie to him now, no reason to hide from him, looking Steven straight in the eye as he adds, "I've been right here. I came for you."

A flicker of something passes over Steven's eyes. If he lets himself dream, he may recognise it as happiness, or as relief; or as love. But he knows, he's watched him these past few weeks and he knows the boy has moved on, so it can't be that that he's seeing. Surely it can't.

"You came for me?" Steven repeats, dumbfounded.

"I came for you," Brendan confirms.

Seconds pass between them, minutes even as they sit, assessing each other. The room is thick with that spark that's flying between them now, connecting through their eyes, so reminiscent of everything that's gone between them in the past.

They haven't lost it. Right now, Brendan knows they haven't lost it. This thing between them, the thing that at one point in time he had wanted to control, to manipulate, to use for his own pleasure and nothing more; but now it's bigger than him or Steven could ever have imagined – bigger than life itself and the world they both live in.

He doesn't care about Prince Hollywood any more. He doesn't care if Steven's moving on and won't return his words – all he cares about is making sure that Steven knows. If nothing else, he needs Steven to _know _that nothing has changed. Not for him, anyway.

"I never stopped loving you, Steven. I've never felt any differently about you. I promi -"

But he can't finish his vow, can't spill out his heart to the boy in the way he had rehearsed for so long because he's suddenly in his lap, his lips are against his own and it's blinding, intoxicating, overwhelming.

He's stunned into submission, breathless with the boy as he straddles him, knees either side of his hips, palms against each side of his neck and fingers reaching round, pulling him closer. He adjusts himself, mesmerised by the feeling of the boy against him after all this time and he opens his lips and lets him inside.

Their tongues reunite with force, dancing together as if neither of them have forgotten the moves, their bodies slotting back together with ridiculous ease. As Brendan consumes his boy, tastes him all over his tongue, groaning into his mouth and feeling the vibration of Steven's moans in reply, he finally lets himself accept it all.

Steven's here. He's real. And he's exactly where he had been four years ago.

How could he have ever doubted his boy.

"I love you, Brendan," Steven whispers into his mouth, as if right on cue, "I never stopped, I swear."

His words fill Brendan with light and with love, creeping into the darkest corners of his soul, awakening them to the possibilities now that Steven's back. He's back and Brendan swears he's never going to let him go again.

"I thought about you every day in there," Brendan replies, invading Steven's neck, kissing, licking, biting, devouring hungrily because he's been starved of this boy for too long.

"I love you, Brendan," Steven repeats, saying the words again because they just don't seem to hold enough weight, don't seem _enough, _don't seem to reflect the pain and the anguish and the waiting and the despair and the loss of hope he's fought against to keep that light shining deep in the recesses of his heart.

"You already said that," Brendan quips, smirking into the boys chest now, sucking at the space just above his collarbone and stroking up and down the goosebumps he can feel appearing on his forearms.

"I could tell you a million times," Steven replies as he punctuates each word with a kiss against his temple, his forehead, his cheek, his ear, his hairline, "and it still wouldn't be enough, Brendan."

There's a rough knocking at the door, three times, pause, four times; but neither of them make a move to answer it. Neither of them can summon up the strength to pull away from each other, not in this Heaven-sent moment they've both lost themselves in.

Seconds later a buzzing against the coffee table, phone vibrating away furiously, seeming to convey the thoughts of the person on the other end but it's useless – there's nothing that can tear them apart right now. They both know who's knocking, who's calling, but Steven's white knight has returned now, and the Prince stands no chance in this battle.

Brendan might feel weary, might be sure that what he's about to do is against the doctors orders, but he isn't about to let something as precious as this moment fall away. He will summon up all the strength he can muster to let him and Steven be together once more. Even if it kills him, he'll die with a smile on his face.

"I want you," he whispers into Steven's ear, biting at his lobe as he does so and eliciting a sound of pure pleasure from his boy.

"You've got me," he whispers back, pulling away and holding his face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together as he stares deep into Brendan's eyes. "You've always had me. I never let you go, Brendan. I never could let you go."

Brendan urges forwards and invades his mouth, dominating his tongue, reveling in the slip slide of Steven's tongue against his own, the slight bumps of his tastebuds at the back of his tongue, the heat and passion of it as they dance together once again, his hands reaching to the small of his back and pulling him close, as close as he can get. Steven's grinding down on him now, his hardness flush against him and his body's responding. Fuck, it's been so long since he's had this. Four years since he's been this close to another person. Four whole years of abstaining from this kind of contact because to do this with anyone other than Steven would have felt like the worst kind of betrayal.

"I want you," Brendan repeats in the short interlude between their kisses.

"Then have me," Steven replies, "Have me, now, Brendan."

He doesn't need telling twice, pulling his shirt up over his head as Steven mirrors him with his own before reaching down and unbuckling Brendan's belt and unbuttoning his jeans. He stands up to pull his trackies and boxers down in one quick movement and watches on hungrily as Brendan lifts his hips and drags his own trousers and boxers down with his thumbs, still seductive as fuck despite his weakened body and drawn out appearance. It doesn't matter to Steven – he still wants him. He can't imagine a time he won't want Brendan Brady like this.

It's quick and it's ragged, pained, desperate. Steven sucking on Brendan's fingers when he pushes them into his mouth, slicking them up before he pulls them out and pushes into his hole without warning, without apology. Brendan prepares him minimally, can't be done with any of the foreplay or the rest of it, he's waited too fucking long and he needs this, needs to feel alive again, to feel the blood rushing through his veins and the sweat dripping from his body, wants to feel that white heat of his orgasm as it radiates out of him and pushes into Steven. His hands are working him up, stroking along his cock but it's not his hands that he wants, it's his whole fucking body, he needs to be inside of him and none of the rest of it fucking matters anymore. It's real now, he knows it's real and he can't wait any longer, can't torture himself any more.

Brendan needs him, needs him now.

"Have you -"

"No," comes Steven's reply, but it's not stopping him, he's rising up, moving away from Brendan's fingers and positioning himself above his cock ready to grind down over him and take it all.

"Steven -"

"Just do it -"

"Not without -"

"Just do it -"

"I won't hurt you, Steven -"

He looks straight in his eyes then – sees the need and the desperation and the rage and it's all pouring out of him, all the years of hurt, of heartbreak, of anger and pain, and it's all there in his eyes, tearing into him, ripping up his heart and he knows, he knows in that moment what he's done to the boy, what he's put him through and he needs to show him, show him it all meant something.

It's dangerous and it's reckless and he knows it is but he can't not, he can't move away from this now, can't break this up after all this time, with all this pain that's seeping through the both of them, knowing the only thing to fix them is each other. He quickly remembers the box of condoms he had kept in the drawer of the coffee table all those years ago, hopes they're still there as he leans forward, holding Steven's body close as he pulls the drawer open and there they are. He fervently tears the box open, ripping the foil and rolling it quickly over himself. Steven's lowering himself down within seconds, wincing back the heat of it but there's something else behind his eyes too, there's that hunger and that passion that he had never been able to resist, never been able to get enough of, his insatiable appetite for this boy making him desperate and hasty and completely hopeless to resist.

"Just fuck me, Brendan."

And he does, his words a warning, a threat that without it he might not live and Brendan can't be responsible for that.

It's quick, their separation from each other making the moment heated and dripping with need and with lust and neither of them can hold out, Steven grinding down on him repeatedly and it's fucking electric, it's more than his body can handle, more than his head can deal with and he knows there can be nothing for him after this – there's nothing that can compare to this. He'll spend the rest of his life protecting this boy, protecting what they have between each other because there's no way they can spend another second out of each others company. After this, he's going to lock Steven into his life and never let him leave.

Brendan comes first, blinded by the sensation, the memories of what he's missed for all these years washing over him, lifting him higher than he thought he would ever feel again. He looks at the boy, watches his face light up as he continues to ride him, and it's seconds, just seconds before his eyes are rolling back, the air surrounding them filling with the sounds of his pleasure, the moans and the _fuck-yes _of Steven's orgasm. Brendan's never forgotten how fucking beautiful he sounds when he comes. The memory of it had echoed around his cell for the past four years, and to hear it now in the flesh, echoing through the four walls of this flat - it's life-affirming. This place where it had all started all those years ago - with a bottle of whiskey; and a busman's holiday; and Steven's tongue as he joked about Jacqui; and Faithless Insomnia; and Steven's courage to take the bait in that moment. From then to now, this boy had been all he could see.

They shift round, bodies heaving with the rush of it, hearts beating fast and chests pounding, panting for breath as Brendan turns to lie on the couch on his back, head against the armrest, and Steven settles down on top of him, still naked, still wet with the after effects of their reunion, with the aftershock of them having brought each other back to life.

Brendan's weaker now, weaker than he had been before because his body hadn't been ready for that; but somehow he feels stronger than he can remember feeling in years. Everything's back in its right place. The world seems good again. The light is flooding through the windows and his mind is filled only with dreams of a future he can picture now without reservation. He's got Steven back, and life is worth living once more.

The only thing to pierce this blissful moment in their post-coital haze is the buzzing of Steven's phone on the coffee table again. He pulls away slightly to reach for it, but Brendan pulls him back instinctively, wrapping his arms around him tighter than before. Steven doesn't question it, relaxing his head back down into that place between Brendan's chest and his neck which had been carved out especially for Steven all those years ago.

"I'll need to call him," Steven mutters, breath whisping against the short hairs on Brendan's chest and sending a tickling sensation through his whole body.

Brendan grunts in response, his body spent now, too exhausted to ask him why.

"I'll need to tell him it's over," Steven continues, his words filling Brendan with warmth, a smile creeping over his lips, the sensation feeling strange to him after so long, "I'll need to tell him this is it now. It's you and me."

"You and me," Brendan replies, didn't mean it as a question but he realises it came out sounding like one.

"You and me." Steven replies with conviction.

Brendan sighs as the sincerity of his words catch in his chest.

He isn't in the shadows any longer. All that surrounds him now is light and life. Steven's light. Steven's life.

It's him and Steven now.

Forever.


End file.
